


Imperfect

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Emotional Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Season/Series 03, Such incredibly sad wankng, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:24:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you were mine, I'd bruise my knees crawling for you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedPlush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedPlush/gifts).



After the dust had settled from his return--to whatever extent that was possible--and Sherlock and John were settled back into their detective-and-his-blogger routine (minus the mustache, of course, which was a more burdensome third wheel than the unexpected existence of his fiancee), Sherlock and Mary fell into a chummy routine of exchanging texts throughout most of each day.

\--

_Have you been to Tokyo? There's a print hung in the waiting room, Japanese. I've always wanted to go. x, Mary_

_I adore Tokyo. Only place I've ever been that feels like it's moving at the right speed. --SH_

\--

_Remind John to wear his third-best shoes this evening. And don't expect him until after 2a.m. If that's all right.--SH_

_One of these times I'm calling your bluff on this asking-for-permission thing. I'll remind him. x, Mary_

\--

At other times during the day, though, he was texting John.

\--

_I've been thinking about your hair. It was almost an inch longer when we met.--SH_

_I bought that tea you like. Forgot what I went into the shop for. (remembered later: food).--SH_

_The taxi I was in earlier had a lingering scent of the previous fare; he wore your same after shave.--SH_

_I composed a new piece I think you'll enjoy. I'll play it for you next time you come around.--SH_

_Are you awake? I know it's late.--SH_

_Can't sleep. I tried.--SH_

_Really.--SH_

_There's a smell of you on my pillowslip.--SH_

_Nevermind those texts last night; I drank the dregs of that bottle you left and it made me melancholy instead of tired.--SH_

\--

John ignored all but the most urgent or most innocent texts, not wanting to lead Sherlock on. He'd loved him; of course he'd loved him. But then he died, and John mourned, and then moved on. It was a rare situation, indeed, that the man he'd been in unrequited love with--had spent just a few fumbling weeks having a _what-the-fuck-are-we-doing?_ sexual affair with--had risen from the dead and now appeared ready to love him back, too late.

\--

_Look forward to hearing the new composition. Can have the tea while I listen! JW_

\--

And so it went, for weeks.

Then one night, they'd finished a case and shared a meal and a few belts of whisky before the taxi rolled up to the flat John shared with Mary and he wished Sherlock a good night and fumbled for his keys, finally getting them in the lock and turning to wave, to show Sherlock he was on his way inside. The cab rolled off, John quietly shut the door (it was near midnight and they had early clinic hours next day; Mary would be asleep, he knew), and toed off his shoes there in the entry hall. His phone went.

"Hello?"

"Got in all right?"

"Sherlock. Yeah, of course."

He dragged one finger along the wall as he went in sock-feet toward the kitchen, ran the tap for a glass of water.

"Mary waited up for you, I suppose?"

"No. She knows better. House is all buttoned up for the night--dark, quiet." He swallowed the water, moved to the lounge. "My night on the sofa; don't want to wake her."

Sherlock hummed.

"You need something, Sherlock?"

A deep inhale, as if he were going to dive underwater. John heard the familiar rattle of Sherlock's keys, the squeak of the heavy front door of the Baker Street flat.

"Are you happy with her, John?"

"Sorry-- _what_?"

"Your arrangement with Mary. Domesticity. All the flatware matching."

"None of it stolen from restaurants you disapprove of," John put in.

"If you were mine, I'd never try to tame you down that way," Sherlock said, and his voice was quiet, with something in it John had never heard before--something stealthy and dangerous.

John cleared his throat.

"What do you mean, 'if I were--'?"

"If you were mine, I'd bruise my knees crawling for you."

"Sherlock."

"If you were mine, when you came in late at night I'd be waiting in bed for you with my cock in my hand and my mouth wet and ready."

John inhaled shakily, glanced toward the darkened stairs.

"Where are you right now?" Sherlock demanded, and John heard clothing rustling, a lamp clicking--on or off, he wasn't sure.

"Sofa."

"Sitting or lying down?"

John hesitated, then said in an almost-whisper, "Sitting.”

"If you were mine, you'd always know how much I miss you when you're gone. How much I've missed you." A swallow, an exhalation. "John."

"Sherlock, I can't let you--"

"If you were mine, I'd be kissing your neck right now, opening my mouth against the softest parts of your throat, sucking, pressing my teeth. If you were mine, everyone would know because I would mark you."

John let out a jagged breath, listened, heard Sherlock breathing. After a moment, he whispered. "More," and closed his eyes against it.

"If you were mine, I'd wrap my legs around your waist, so you could feel my arse in your lap because I know you like it. I know you've missed it."

"Mm," was all John could manage, and he shifted the phone from one ear to the other, let himself slide forward on the sofa to make room for Sherlock's phantom limbs spidering around him, let his head fall onto the sofa's back.

"I'd let you lick my fingers because I know you miss that, too, and then slide my hands up under your shirt and pinch your nipples." Sherlock let go a little moan and there was another distinctive creak: his bed frame as he shifted on the mattress. "If you were mine, I'd lick your tongue, and suck your bottom lip, and taste you. . ." there was wind in his voice now ". . .taste you. . ." his breath shuddered ". . .taste you, kiss you, _John_. . ."

"Fuck, Sherlock. . ."

"Tell me you miss me," Sherlock practically begged.

"I miss you," John whispered.

"You miss kissing me."

"I do."

"You miss touching me."

"Yes."

Sherlock let go a quiet moan--he might have even been holding the phone away, or against his chest--then said, "If you were mine, I'd open your trousers because I can't wait for it, John, I can't wait to touch your gorgeous cock, wrap my fingers around it, I want to see the way your face changes when I take you in my hand."

John hummed hard, his hips rocking a bit, seeking friction for his now fully hard prick, straining behind his fly.

"Open them for me, John, get your cock out for me." His voice momentarily shifted from desperate and demanding to something like a plea: "Will you do this for me?"

"Yeah," John murmured, surprised to hear the tone he'd only ever used with Sherlock, forever ago, gentling him, reassuring him that John was there with him. "Yeah. Sherlock." He made quick work of his button and zip, wrested his heavy prick free of his boxers.

"Wet your fingers," Sherlock whispered, and John did as he was told, licking his palm and the flats of his fingers with a wide swipe of his tongue, the unmistakable sound of Sherlock doing the same sounding wetly in his ear. "I love how your cock oozes for me," Sherlock murmured. "Are you dripping?"

"God yes."

"If you were mine, I'd coat my fingertips with your pre-cum and paint my lips with it. Would you kiss me?"

"Fuck!" John gusted, keeping is voice low and his hand on his cock still until the right moment. "Yeah, I'd kiss you. I love kissing you. I miss kissing you. That mouth."

Sherlock made a desperate, " _Uh_!" then said, "If you were mine, John, I'd take you in my hand and stroke you so slow from the dripping tip of your beautiful cock all the way down to feel the hair against my hand, the way it tickles my knuckles." He sucked in a breath, then demanded, "Do it."

John turned his hand the wrong way round, finger and thumb toward his body--as if it was not his hand at all--and made one slow, squeezing stroke down his length.

"Mmm."

"John."

"Sherlock, are you--?"

"If you were mine, I'd slip back your foreskin to see how wet and shiny and red the head of your cock gets for me. Just for me." His breath skipped and stuttered. "I'd kiss you and kiss you."

"I know."

"Your cock is perfect. I miss feeling your skin against mine. I miss all your-- _ah!_ \--smells. If you were mine I'd watch your perfect face while I stroked you. Are you stroking yourself?"

"Yeah." Earnestly.

"Thinking about me stroking you?"

"Wishing you were." He'd turned his hand round the right way so he could get the tempo right, the pressure, and behind his closed eyes was a vision of Sherlock with sweat in his hair, his lips impossibly pink and swollen because he  _would_  kiss and kiss and kiss, he loved kissing, he was a voracious, insatiable kisser. . .

"If you were mine, John, I'd make you feel so good,  _so good_." It sounded more like a plea than a promise. It was so sexy and so heartbreaking.

"I know."

"I'd pull on your perfect cock until I could see that hot, pink flush that starts on your chest and washes up your neck to your face.  .the way you bite your lip and your eyebrows frown and you always reach for me, touch me, hold me. . ."

"Yes," John hissed. "You're remarkable. Sherlock. You're—perfect you’re—so beautiful."

"If you were mine, I'd watch you come, I love to see it, your face. . ." Sherlock's breath was gusty and out of time, he must be close, too, and the image in his mind, of Sherlock wrapped around him, kissing him, writhing in his lap, pulling both of them off with his pale, impossibly long-fingered hands threatened to tip John over the edge. Sherlock, rumbling in his ear: "I love to see—your cum shooting all over me—my hand—my skin—my body--"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" John shout-whispered, and moved the phone from his ear so he could bite on the heel of his hand, huffing caught breath around it as he came hard, messing his trousers-leg and his shoved-aside boxers.

Sherlock, who had no reason to keep quiet, moaned a series of long _Oh_ 's that rose in pitch until he bit down on his voice altogether and then let out a shivering sigh.

Neither spoke, catching their breath. After a minute or so, John finally whispered, "Sherlock. . ."

"If you were mine, John, everything would be. . ."

"--god--"

"Perfect."

John pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

"Good night, John."

"Sherlock--"

He had already rung off.

\--

_You know who's terribly interesting? Old folks. Especially if they're immigrants. Lady in here today knew Josephine Baker in Paris! x, Mary_

_So I'm told. They talk so slowly, though. You can listen and text it to me. Perfect. --SH_

\--

_I've been cross-checking the most accurate weather forecasts for your and Mary's wedding day. Sunny, clear, warm. Perfect.--SH_


End file.
